"No."
"Good. Then why don't we go upstairs."
"Okay." I reached back and slid my fingers into his hair, gripping, as I turned my face toward his. "Please tell me you're not so sure of yourself you changed the sheets before you left the house tonight."
"I didn't. I wouldn't do that to you. I bought new."
13?
Cheney drove me home at 5:45 through the early morning light. He'd go into the gym for his morning workout and then hit the department in time for a briefing at 7:00. I intended to crawl straight into bed. We'd finally untangled ourselves at dawn, just as streaks in the sky were turning from salmon to hot pink. It had taken me less than a minute to throw on my clothes, after which I'd watched him get dressed. He was more muscular than I'd imagined, his body sleek and well defined. Good pecs, good biceps, good abs. When I'd married Mickey I was twenty-one years old to his thirty-seven, a difference of sixteen years. Daniel had been closer to my age, but soft, with a boyish body, slender and narrow-chested. Dietz, like Mickey, had been senior to me by sixteen years, a connection I'd never made before. Something to ponder later. I hadn't devoted much thought to men's bodies, but then again I'd never made the acquaintance of one quite like Cheney's. He was just so beautifully built-skin as smooth as fine leather, pulled taut over an armature of stone.
On the street in front of my place, we kissed one last time before I got out of the car and watched him rumble away. With any other man, I might already be fretting about all the dumb things women worry about - would he call, would I see him again, had he meant even one small portion of what he'd said. With Cheney, I didn't care. Whatever this was and whatever came next, it was all fine with me. If the entire relationship ended up encapsulated in the hours we'd just spent, well, wasn't I the lucky one for the experience?
I slept until ten, skipped the run, lollygagged around the house, and finally drifted into the office shortly before noon in time to break for lunch. I was just about to unwrap my cheese and pickle sandwich when I heard someone open the outer door and slam it shut. Reba appeared in the doorway, her face suffused with rage, manila envelope in hand. "Did you take these?"
I felt a spurt of fear at the sight of the envelope, given that I had its identical twin in my drawer.
She leaned across my desk and slashed the air in front of my face with the comer of the envelope, shaking it so close to my eyes she could have taken one out. "Did you?"
"Did I what? I don't even know what you're talking about." This was world-class lying, me at my best, rising to the challenge, unflinching in the heat of battle.
She undid the clasp and snatched out the prints, which she slapped down in front of me. She leaned forward again, this time supporting her weight with both hands. "Some fucking little creep came to the house and asked to speak to me. I thought it was a parole officer doing a home visit so I take him in the living room and sit him down to have a chat, cheery as all get-out just to show what a good little citizen I am. Next thing I know he's handing me these and laying out a line of shit like you wouldn't believe. That's Beck, by the way, in case the light's too grainy."
I picked up the black-and-white prints and made a display of sorting through them, trying to decide how to play this. I placed them on the desk and looked up at her. "So he picks up some hooker. What do you expect?"
"Hooker, my ass." She took one photo by the edge and pointed at the woman with such viciousness she nearly ripped the page. "Do you know who that is?"
I shook my head, my heart thudding in my chest. Of course I knew. I just didn't want to admit it to her.
"That's Onni. My best friend."
"Ah."
She made a face. "I don't give a shit if he had sex, but with her?"
"Yeah, you'd think as a courtesy, he could have screwed his wife instead of your best friend," I said.
"Exactly. I didn't expect him to be celibate. I certainly wasn't."
Ooo, what did she mean by that? With whom had she done what? In prison, the options were limited, or so one would think.
"You know what pisses me off? I'm supposed to have dinner with Onni. Tonight. Can you picture it? I'd be chatting away, happy to be with her because I missed her so much. The whole time she'd be sitting there, laughing up her ass. The friggin' bitch. She knows I'm in love with him. She knows that!" Her face suddenly took on that pinched look that precedes tears. She sat down abruptly. "Oh god, what am I going to do?"
I waited for a moment, listening to the tight squeezed-up sound of her weeping. This went on for a while, but once the sobs had subsided, I said, "Are you okay?"
"No, I'm not okay. Does it look like I'm okay? I'm going out of my mind. I could have gone my whole life without this."
Like a shrink, I picked up the box of tissues from the corner of my desk and pushed it over to her. She took one and blew her nose. "Hell with it. I wasn't going to do this, but I really can't help myself." She opened her bag and took out a fresh pack of cigarettes. She tugged on the thin band of red, peeling away the top of the cellophane wrapper. She tore off one half of the foil and smacked the bottom of the pack on her hand to force a cigarette forward out of the tight pack. She reached for her gold Dunhill lighter and flicked it, bending to the flame with a rapt expression on her face. She inhaled, drawing smoke into her lungs like nitrous oxide, letting it out again in a soft stream. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. This was like watching someone shoot up. I could see the sedative effect as the nicotine permeated her system. She opened her eyes again. "Better. That's awesome. I hope you have an ashtray."
"Flick it on the floor. The carpet's shit anyway."
She was probably light-headed, but at least the outrage had been erased and replaced by an artificial calm. She allowed herself a thin, mocking smile. "I should have known when I bought the pack I'd crack it within a day."
"Just don't drink."
"Right. I won't. One vice at a time." She took another drag from her cigarette, tension draining from her face. "It's been a year since smoked. Shit, and I was doing so well."
"You were doing great." I was still picking my way across what felt like a minefield, wondering if I could tell her the truth without bringing down fire on my own position.
"What's sick is the damn thing tastes so good," she said.
The subject of Beck was beside the point, now that she had her smokes. "So now what?" I asked.
"Beats the hell out of me."
"Maybe the two of us can figure it out."
"Yeah, right. What's to figure? I've been had," she said.
"I'm puzzled about the fellow who came to the house. I don't get that. Who was he?"
She shrugged. "He said he was FBI."
"Really. The FBI?"
"That's what he claimed, all superior and smarmy. As soon as I saw the first photo, I told him to get the hell off the property, but he wanted to sit there and spell it out for me, like I was too dumb to get it. I picked up the phone and told him I'd call the cops if he wasn't out the door in five seconds. That shut him up."
"Did he show you his ill? Badge, business card? Anything like that?"
"He flashed a badge when I first opened the door, but I didn't pay attention. Parole officers carry badges. I thought that's who he was so I didn't bother to check his name. I mean, what's it to me? I didn't see what choice I had so I let him in. When he pulled out the envelope, I figured he had forms to fill out, like he'd be filing some report. By the time I realized what he was up to I was so damn mad I didn't care who he was."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm sure as hell canceling my dinner date. I wouldn't sit down with Onni if I had a gun to my head."
"Don't you think Beck's the one you should be mad at? You went to jail for the guy and this is what he does in return."
"I never went to jail for him. Who told you that?"
"What difference does it make? That's the word around town."
"Well, I didn't."
"Come on, Reba. You
might as well come clean. I'm the only friend you have. So you're crazy in love and took the fall for him. Wouldn't be the first time. Maybe he sweet-talked you into it."
"He didn't sweet-talk me into anything. I knew what I was doing."
"I have a hard time believing that."
"You want to argue the point? You ask me to be honest and then you sit there and make judgments? How fucked up is that?"
I raised a hand. "Right. You're right. I apologize. I didn't mean it that way."
She stared at me, assessing my sincerity. I must have looked like an honest woman because she said, "Okay."
"Anyway, whatever the motivation, you're saying you didn't embezzle any money from him?"
"Of course not. I have money of my own, or at least I had some back then."
"That being the case, how'd you end up in jail?"
"The discrepancies showed up on an audit and he had to account for the missing money somehow. He thought they'd let me off easy. Suspended sentence, probation - you know, something like that."
"That seems like a stretch. You'd been in jail once before on a bad-check charge. From the judge's point of view, this was simply more of the same."
"Well, yeah, I guess it might have looked that way. Beck did everything he could to soften the blow. He told the DA he didn't want to file charges, but I guess It's like a case of domestic violence - once the system gets hold of you, you don't have much choice. There's this big gap, three hundred and fifty thousand gone and him without an explanation."
"What happened to the money?"
"Nothing. He was socking it away, shifting the money to an offshore account so his wife couldn't get her hands on it. How was he supposed to know the judge would turn out to be such a hard-ass? Four years? My god. He was more shocked than I was."
"Really."
"I'm serious. He felt like a turd. He got in this big stinking argument with the prosecuting attorney. That went nowhere. Then he wrote I to the judge, begging him to be lenient, but no such luck. He promised he'd have his attorney file an appeal - "
"An appeal? What are you talking about? Beck had no standing to file an appeal. The law doesn't work that way."
"Oh. Well, maybe I misunderstood. It was something like that. He said it was his responsibility and he'd take the blame, but by then, it was too late. He had more to lose than I did. How I looked at it, as long as he was free, he could work on getting the rest of the money set aside. Besides, he was taking all the risks. If somebody had to pay, better me than him."
"So you came up with the idea," I said, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
"Sure. I mean, I can't exactly remember who mentioned it first, but I was the one who insisted."
"Reba - I don't mean to sound critical so don't blow your stack - but it looks like he set you up. Doesn't it look like that to you?"
That was a stumper. "You think he'd do that?"
"He did this," I said, pointing to the photographs. "You're the one who toughed it out down there, day after day for the past twenty-two months. Meanwhile, Beck's up here screwing around. Doesn't that bug you? It bugs me."
"Of course it bugs me, but it's not exactly news. He's a womanizer. I've always known that about him. It doesn't mean anything. That's just the way he is. The reason I'm mad at her is she should've had more loyalty or integrity or something."
"You don't even know when it started. He could have been involved with her when the alleged embezzlement first came to light."
"Thank you. That's nice. Once I get done choking her to death, I'll have her verify dates and times."
"I hope that's hyperbole."
"Whatever that is," she said. "The thing I can't figure out is what this has to do with the FBI? Why's this guy chasing around town snap- ping pictures of Beck? And why bring 'em to me? If he wanted to make trouble, why not show Tracy?"
"I can help with that," I said, mentally cursing the bumblefuck FBI agent who jumped the gun on us. I stopped, poised on the brink. There was still time to back up. This was like standing on a ten-meter platform, looking at the drop to the water below. If you're going to jump, get it over with. It doesn't get easier the longer you wait. I felt a thin mist of anxiety settle on my skin. "The feds are interested in Beck's relationship with Salustio Castillo."
She studied me. "Where'd you get that?"
"Reba, you worked for the guy. You have to be clued in."
She veered off that topic. "Did Pop put you up to this?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I haven't spoken to him since he hired me. Besides, he's an honorable man. He'd never stoop to sleazy photos. He's got way too much class."
She took another deep drag and blew the smoke straight up. "What's your source then?"
"I have pals in law enforcement. It was one of them."
"And the FBI's involved?"
"The IRS is interested as well. Plus Customs, plus the DOJ, plus the ATF for all I know. Lieutenant Phillips is the local liaison if you want to talk to him."
"I don't get it. Why me? What do they want?"
"They need help. They're putting a case together and need the inside dope. I guess the pictures were intended to get you in the mood."
"He screws me over so I turn around and screw him?"
"Why not?"
"What else have you heard?"
"About Beck? Nothing you don't already know. He takes the illegal profits and he runs the funds through his company to make them look legitimate. He takes a percentage off the top and then he returns clean money to the thugs he works for. Right?"
She was silent. Her gaze shifted an inch.
I said, "You had to have been in on it all along. You did the books for him, bank deposits, stuff like that, right?"
"The company comptroller handled most of it, but okay, maybe some."
"The FBI can use information if you're willing to play."
She was silent, her gaze tracking the dust motes settling through the air like fairy dust. "I'll think about it."
I said, "While you're at it, think about this. Onni has your old job, which means she knows as much about his business as you do, except her information's current. If he's planning to disappear, who's he going to take with him? More to the point, who's he leaving behind? Onni? Don't think so. Not if she's in a position to blow the whistle on him."
"I'm in that position, too," she said, as though feeling competitive about her ability to squeal. She held up the last inch of her cigarette.
"I have to put this out."
"Give it to me."
I reached over and took the butt end, holding it with about as much enthusiasm as I'd feel for a freshly salted slug. I left the office and carried it down the hall to my tatty toilet with the permanent rust stains. I dropped it in the john and flushed. I could feel the tension between my shoulder blades. This was work and I had no way to tell if the pitch would be effective. If nothing else, I hoped she'd give up her fantasy of what Beck was.
When I returned to the office, she was standing by the window. I sat down at my desk. With the light coming in, she was almost entirely in silhouette. I picked up a pencil and made a mark on my blotter. "Where's your head at this point?"
She turned and smiled at me briefly. "Not as far up my butt as it was."
And that was where we left it.
I told her to take her time thinking about the situation before she decided what to do. Vince Turner might be in a hurry, but he was asking a lot and, one way or the other, she'd better be convinced. Once she'd agreed, he couldn't afford to have her changing her mind. I watched her through the window. She got in her car and sat there long enough to light up again and then she took off. Once I knew she was gone, I put a call through to Cheney and laid out the sequence of events, including the hapless FBI agent who'd put the plan at risk.
He said, "Shit."
"That was my reaction."
"Damn. And there's no name on this crud?"
"None, and no description of him, either. I'd have pressed
her for details, but I was too busy trying to act like I didn't know the whole of it in advance."
"She buy it?"
"I'd say so. In the main. Anyway, I thought you'd want to call Vince and let him know where we stand."
"Which is where?"
"I'm not sure. Reba needs time. This is a lot to digest."
Sue Grafton - R Is For Ricochet Page 14